


But This Is Not Alaska

by la_choo (melonbutterfly)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-10
Updated: 2010-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/la_choo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day of the funerals, and Luna doesn't have the patience nor the inclination to deal with someone who douses everybody in her self-pity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But This Is Not Alaska

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dayari](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dayari).



> "We all go to Alaska when we die" is from the song "Blake Says" by the Dresden Dolls.

"I think you should be proud," Luna said, staring at the bathroom wall hat was glistening with wetness in the light of the single candle she had brought. Myrtle somewhere to her left made a strangled noise, but Luna wasn't interested in hearing her wailing. She was feeling unusually cold and impolite today, so she interrupted her before she could start.

"We all go to Alaska when we die."

Myrtle made another gagging noise, and Luna turned her head to look at her, aware that her eyes were reflecting her inner coldness.

"It's why it's so cold and empty there. The souls of everyone who died live there, sucking up the warmth that strays. Have you never wondered why even the ocean is frozen into motionlessness?"

Myrtle was so stunned she could only shake her head, but even if she had said anything Luna would have continued. Today wasn't a kind day.

"The earth magic should keep it warm enough there so at least plants can live there, but it doesn't – it's been gone since thousands and thousands of years.

"It's the souls that made that. Souls are cold, you know. That's why the dementors have to keep eating and eating them, why they can never be happy. They have to suck happiness out of other people, or they'd die. And they do anyway; dementors don't live long.

"It's also why you are so cold." Passionless, she watched the silvery tears well up in Myrtle's eyes, like they always did when someone spoke of her death. If she knew a feeling like hate, Myrtle would definitely be someone she'd feel it for. She was weak, the only emotion she knew was self-pity. She thought she had it bad, didn't she? But she had died years and years ago before she was even in the danger of anything really horrible happening to her. Even her death had been a mere accident, and as painless as not even the Avada Kedavra with it's cruel cruelness was.

No. Luna couldn't work up anything even remotely like pity for someone like Myrtle, not with what she'd seen and known. Too many people she knew, had been friends with, had gone through so much more than the ugly little girl-ghost in front of her without dropping a tear, without a complaint. And they all had died. She was alone now; reduced to being the war veteran she was, and the ones who didn't avoid her because of that did because of who he'd been before the war – as if any of that were still important.

"You suck up our warmth with your mere presence, and when someone touches you you drain them of it immediately."

Moaning Myrtle honoured her name when she gave a loud wail and loudly threw herself into the next toilet, dosing Luna with water.

She didn't care. Her robes had been soaking before already, the former white of the cloth dampened to a faint, hopeless grey.

Not many people had worn white for the funeral, because most of the attending had been muggleborn or half-muggleborn. Muggles wore black for funerals.

Wizards wore white, white as the snow and ice in Alaska, white as the souls and the shadows of souls that were ghosts. White was a bland, dead colour, and Luna shuddered every time she saw a girl marry in it. It was an unlucky colour for a wedding.

She took one last look around the wet, mouldy bathroom and then struggled to get up. She had brought flowers, but she hadn't wanted to leave them with all the others, drowned in the meaningless bouquets the hundreds of other attendants had brought. Those that knew nothing of any of those that had been buried today.

Luna knew.

She looked down at her own bouquet, each flower standing for somebody else she had lost in the course of this endless war, and knew for the sake of the Lilies, she should try to be happy.

Only she couldn't, just not yet.


End file.
